


She's a Rebel, She's a Saint

by Sherbetlemonsandshuriken



Category: American Idiot - Green Day/Armstrong, Green Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:19:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1709732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherbetlemonsandshuriken/pseuds/Sherbetlemonsandshuriken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This won the Isle of Man's Young Crime Writer of the Year Competition in 2011 (currently the only one run, so I still retain that title). It was subsequently shortlisted for the national award. It's about a girl, a man, and a bomb.<br/>It's completely fine for the Hannibal ACCA to feature this piece on their website, as part of my portfolio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She's a Rebel, She's a Saint

My hands fumble for the remote he throws me. A lethargic grin seeps across his face. There’s a sudden flash of matt black, and then I’m sprawled on the floor, clutching a bleeding cheek, remote still in hand, somehow. He points his gun at me, the same lazy leer still plastered across his smug face. It would set my nervous teeth on edge, had I capacity to feel angry. I’m too busy being terrified.  
“Well, get up.” He casually orders. He drawls out his words, stretching them to let me know just how unaffected he actually is by what he’s making me- what I’m about to do. I quickly scramble to my feet. His indolent smile never falters.  
“Good. Now press the red button.” I look at the remote in my shaking hands. There’s only one button to press. Irritation creeps into the mix of adrenaline and fear that’s coursing through my system. His smile finally starts to fade as my fingers shake, and I drop my hand.  
“No.” I manage to choke out, my throat constricting with the fear I feel. I drop the remote and step backwards. “I can’t do this.” He sighs, the lethargic smile fading quicker than my life will go.  
“I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” He says carefully, stepping forwards.  
“If was you I’d have a better gun.” I point out. He nods, and cocks it.  
“Exactly.” He lets it hang in its sling and grasps me by the shirtfront. I yelp in terror as he hangs me over the edge of the concrete tower.  
“Trust me. You can.” He leans in close. “Do it, kid, or die.” I yelp again as his grip loosens, eyes widening in utter terror. My voice has died. My heart is literally palpitating. He laughs.  
“I think you’ve got it, kid. This isn’t a game anymore. You have to do this. They have no right to live. No right!” In his monotone, emotion is straining to break out. He drops me back on the floor. I scramble for the remote, terrified by this outburst. Tears pouring down my cheeks, tears of terror and loathing, loathing of him and loathing of myself, I press that button. And all hell breaks loose.  
Words to a song, a song I used to love, ring through my head like they’re on endless reply.  
She’s a rebel, she’s a saint….  
Yeah. Not anymore.

Terror. Panic. Devastation. Blood. Gore. Death.  
All of which I caused. All my fault. All my fault. All my….  
“Snap out of it, kid. We’ve got to move.” He snarls. I barely realised I was sobbing hysterically, yelling things I shouldn’t ever say at him. I hug my combat-clad knees to my chest. I feel the gun hanging from my hip and an idea forms in my dreadful, numb, wasteland hellhole of a mind. I prise the gun from its holster, and with shaking hands; hold it against my left temple. It’s cold, and hard, and foreboding. He frowns as he’s walking away, then he sees the gun and runs as I clamp my eyes shut and curl my finger around the trigger. He rips it carelessly from my hand, and slaps me across the face.  
“Snap out of it. Now. Grieve about your lost innocence later, kid.” I don’t move, sat sprawled on the hard concrete, numb on the inside and outside. I can hear him; I just don’t process anything he’s saying.  
“Give me my gun.” I repeat over and over. “Give me my gun.” He sighs, because this is going to have to involve effort, and grasps me by the front of my shirt again. He picks me up and slings me over his shoulder, only pausing to bend down and pick up the gun. He then starts to run, jumping the gaps between buildings, landing precariously each time. He hands me back my gun while he’s running.  
“Feel free to blow your brains out,” He monotones. “But if you get said brains on my shirt I will resurrect you and kill you again.” I holster the gun, and cling on for dear life. He smirks.  
“Knew you wouldn’t. You love yourself far too much.” He might grin, but I can’t, and soon my tears soak his shirt. They were people. Real people. What does that make me? Rebel?  
Or murderer?


End file.
